


Rhythm and Pointe

by vietbluefic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ballet, Bitterness, Buskers, Creative Blocks, Gen, Hip Hop, Inspiration, Inspired by Min Yoongi, Inspired by real people, Music, Music Creation, POV Second Person, Rap Music, Self-Doubt, Street Performers, Underground Rap, rappers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vietbluefic/pseuds/vietbluefic
Summary: You call bullshit. In your oh-so-warranted personal opinion, that’s some of the biggest piles of horsecrap that goes around the music industry as a whole. Feeling down and uninspired? Head out to your local park or most favorite meditation spot and you’ll get that creative mind going! If that were true, you'd be writing and spitting rhymes every day. Your spiral-bound notebooks would be crammed full of rhythm and poetry, and the ballpoint pens you buy in bulk at the neighborhood dollar store would empty with the easy speed of breathing.

  But you don't, and they don't. Hence: what a load of ass.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my Creative Writing class' prompt to use the writing style or themes of one of the authors we had read; this is based on Junot Díaz's ["The Cheater's Guide to Love."](http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/07/23/the-cheaters-guide-to-love)
> 
> However, this is also heavily inspired by a person I've come to admire these last few weeks: Min Yoongi, best known as a member of the South Korean boy group BTS ( _Bangtan Sonmyeondan_ , literally the "Bulletproof Boyscouts"). He's a rapper and songwriter who truly has a passion for what he does and a fiercely inspiring story. I wrote this while listening to his mixtape; he's really the only musician to have ever made me break down in tears.
> 
> May he be blessed with inspiration, and I hope you enjoy this short story, too!

You've watched a thousand interviews, read a hundred articles about all these rappers and hip-hop artists and how they hit a wall. A creative block, they call it and then go on to boast about how they then regained their music by heading out to a certain place. This one spot of inspiration, a location full of bright light and bright sky and stereos pounding heartbeat-bass. I work best in my personal studio, says one man covered in ink from temple to chin. I wrote my record hit on a car ride around my block, says another, it's the best place to do it.

  
You call bullshit. In your oh-so-warranted personal opinion, that’s some of the biggest piles of horsecrap that goes around the music industry as a whole. Feeling down and uninspired? Head out to your local park or most favorite meditation spot and you’ll get that creative mind going! If that were true, you'd be writing and spitting rhymes every day. Your spiral-bound notebooks would be crammed full of rhythm and poetry, and the ballpoint pens you buy in bulk at the neighborhood dollar store would empty with the easy speed of breathing.

  
But you don't, and they don't. Hence: what a load of ass.

  
So every time you manage to wring out another song, another harsh and hot thing whose words taste gloriously bittersweet and leave your chest heaving afterwards, it's a matter of pride, of achievement. You listen to yourself, bass slamming through beaten headphones; you think to no one in particular, _Can you hear what I've just made_ and let out a laugh. A grin like a triumphant angel or madman plasters itself to your face while you edit, and you count down every minute the video takes to upload. The lack of views or likes or pleasant comments? Doesn't fucking matter at all.

  
You know what does matter? When nothing comes, that's what. When nothing comes to the page that you don't slit out with the pen, when the words won't bleed together in the way that sounds right, sounds perfect, you want to scream. You want to tear out blank pages and roar profanities with the voice one commenter complimented for its “scratchy tone, idk how to describe it lol.” When nothing rolls off your tongue like liquid mercury, when nothing makes your heart pound with the dizzying high that only music can give you, you dial up your best friend.

  
You try too hard, man, he says. Sigurd’s got the face of an angel and the moves of a player, and you can tell from how he's breathing that he's at the dance studio. You basically break yourself to make music, Li. Can't be healthy.

  
Give me something, you reply. Anything. I’ve gotta write up at least one verse today. Because you can feel it — the _music_ , simmering along your veins and nerves in the way that always means you're about to land on something great if only you can find the words, the rhythm, and Sigurd who knows this clicks his tongue.

  
Li, you ever heard of something called “relaxing”? I think you oughta give it a try one day.

  
_Today_ , Sigurd.

  
Fine, fine. There's a pause; you can hear a babble of voices in the background. Go down to the promenade, write about what you see. People, places, panhandlers, I dunno, whatever. And bring a credit card.

  
For fuck’s sake… I said I want to rap, not go _shopping_.

  
He snorts, which you nearly miss over the phone. Dude, look, it's a backup plan, okay? ‘Cause you get in a real bitchy mood when you can't make music and lemme tell you, when that happens it just sucks for everybody. So if things don't go right? Take my advice and make it rain, baby!

  
Fuck you, and then you hang up. But still, after two more hours of scrawled and scrawled-out lyrics you wind up reconsidering dancey-pants’ words and in the end swipe your dad’s credit card on your way out of the house. There's probably some billion Chinese kids considered 乖 _guai_ (well-mannered, obedient, filial) by their parents but just as you once cheerfully put it in a less-than-polite song, you, sir, are not among them.

  
The promenade is full with the hours slanting towards dusk, which is when the bars are busiest because alcohol just tastes better at night. Tourists and locals breeze by with a dozen bags, courtesy of the hundred brand stores lined up in domino rows. Neither things you're not really much for and so you sit down on a wrought-iron bench.

  
The best part about the promenade isn't the food or the stores or even the beach a ten-minute walk away, no.

  
It's the music.

  
You've something of a love-hate relationship with the street performers. Love, because look at them, just look at them, they love what they do and there's no chance you'd ever object to that; hate, because they love what they do and you look at their polished instruments and cases full of tips and the piles of CDs just ten dollars each and fuck, it makes your blood _boil_ with a sick mix of grudging admiration and envy.

  
You're not there yet. No, you're stuck mixing beats on your laptop from high school, recording yourself on a friend’s microphone and uploading the results on YouTube for twenty views at most.

  
And some days you overthink, you doubt, and your family’s proclamations that you're never, ever, ever going to make it seem like they’ll ring true.

  
It's a bit of a relief to see that there are no tip-cases or CDs here.

  
You stare at the busker maybe too much to be totally polite. It's a woman (a girl, really, who can't be that younger than you), which isn't surprising; she’s in tights and a tutu, which is. Her shoes are sleek and the pink of lips, and when she stands up onto her toes they curve like a wrist. The music is something sweet and soft: the pulse in your throat.

  
Halfway through her performance — all graceful arms, legs impossibly long, and feet that you're absolutely sure have been gnarled into ugly, proud things between the shank and toe box of _pointe_ — halfway through her performance, the dancer glances up and meets your eyes.

  
A half-second later, you realize that you're crying.

  
_Well, shit,_ you think as you angrily swipe at your face. Thank all that's holy Sigurd is busy with practice today because you'd never live this down if he were here. You glower at the dancer as if it's her fault (and maybe it's not) and her eyes flick away. Her hands flutter. She rises onto her toes again. You imagine them breaking and look at the ground.

  
When her performance ends, there's applause and chatter and after a minute you notice a shadow sliding over to where you're sitting. You lift your head to find the ballet dancer standing above you. Her collarbones are sharp; her hair’s a shade of blond pale enough to border on white, bangs trimmed straight across like a Gothic baby-doll, plastered to her temples with sweat. She stands close enough for you to note each single feather in her tutu.

(She hasn't yet taken off her shoes, ankles still looped with ribbon, so you can't see her feet. But you can see that her fingers are long and slim like piano keys.)

You speak first. Can I help you?

  
She says, You're Li Bohai, right?

  
Your mind goes blank. She nods at your slack-jawed expression as if you'd just said yes and adds, I really like your music. I don't usually listen to rap, but you know. Guilty pleasures. She shrugs, and you stare. So yeah. Keep it up, Li. When's the next song coming again, by the way? I don't have a Twitter to follow you.

  
Oh, you say because you've no idea what else to. After a second, your mouth moves again, automatically: I don’t know. Maybe sometime next month? Depends.

  
Oh. Well. She looks at you before a small smile crosses her face. It narrows her eyes into dark semi-circles, like doodles from an ink pen. You're not sure if you like it.

  
(But you think you do.)

  
Good luck with it.

  
Thanks.

  
And you think of a lyric.

  
Thanks.


End file.
